"Try to be more contented, Beatrice.

We do not make our own lives, we have not the control of our own destiny." "I should like to control mine," sighed Beatrice.
"Try to be contented, darling," continued the sweet, pleading voice.
"We all love and admire you.

No one was ever loved more dearly or better than you are.

The days are rather long at times, but there are all the wonders and beauties of Nature and art." "Nature and Art are all very well," cried Beatrice; "but give me life." She turned her beautiful, restless face from the smiling sea; the south wind dancing over the yellow gorse caught up the words uttered in that clear, musical voice and carried them over the cliff to one who was lying with half-closed eyes under the shade of a large tree--a young man with a dark, half-Spanish face handsome with a coarse kind of beauty.

He was lying there, resting upon the turf, enjoying the beauty of the morning.